WarCraft 3: Under the Wintry Skies
by Spiritblade
Summary: A Death Knight remembers the past before he joined the Scourge. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions or by the betrayal of those who drove you there.


_**Under the wintry skies: A WarCraft III fanfic**_

_**Written by Spiritblade**_

My name is Shateiel Iceblade, former Knight of the Alliance. Yes, former is the most proper term to use. Once upon a time, like every boy and girl born upon the now plagued lands of Lordaeron, I had held in my heart the cherished dream of being a knight. I would ride forth to defend my fellow countrymen and the lands from Evil, my great hammer and sword smiting Darkness when it reared its ugly head. My shield would be the aegis in which the weak and the innocent need not fear the harm that would come to them.

Many would scoff and curse my name now, cursing me for my weakness and my lack of will to resist the temptations that Evil had placed before me. I have betrayed every oath and every promise I have ever made.

Why did I choose this new path, one would ask.

Simple – there was simply nothing left for me to protect. My oath and my promises had become nothing but a mockery and were used as soul knives to peel my heart away, one piece at a time. Ideals and dreams went first; faith went second, destroying any hope I ever had of becoming a paladin; duty and honour died last, and died hardest.

I was given a fate that most villains deserved.

If you're going to be punished and beaten down into the mud like a criminal, then you might as well join the Darkness, no? At least the Light will have reason to punish you and you have good reason to spit in its hypocritical face. For all the fact that I have been loyal, have never been wanting outside of fair treatment and a chance to prove myself, for all the fact I have fought and watched better men and women then me die, I have received nothing.

Maybe I am weak.

No. I am.

If I weren't, I would most likely be suffering in silence within the Alliance camp I am now looking upon. No doubt, as before, I would be cast one corner of some tavern, drinking ale alone. No one wanted to drink with me. Not then, not now.

When you're born in the traitor nation of Alterac, who betrayed the Alliance in the Second Orc-Human War, the stigmata follows you like a pestilence. The sheer amount of effort it took me and my compatriots to enter the Knighthood of Lordaeron had been herculean. We had to best every initiate just to make it to the Lists.

I had been 14, then.

And I had not been alone. Of the 25 initiates that had hailed from Alterac, only I made it in. The Knighthood took fifty times that many from the other nations of the Alliance. Training had been brutal and harsh, especially since the trainers wanted us to be ready for the hard life out in the field. I have been singled out so many times that, even after so long, I bear the scars of those encounters. In time, I learnt the arts of stalking and tracking, which were deemed 'dishonourable' by others. But, even so, I had some friends.

One of them had been my childhood friend, Alyss Woodfern. She was a young half-elf. Older than me by decades, she nevertheless possessed the wisdom, tact and intelligence that made her the unofficial leader of our small posse. She was a daughter of the garrison captain that had watched over Alterac.

The other was Raina Bladeblow. Like me, she was human. She was the daughter of a Stromgarde knight and a huntress. Both girls were fiery and passionate and were my direct opposites in every way possible. They would fight other initiates as much as each other. I was not spared the tussles that were part and parcel of our friendship. Those were days I could be happy for, even if I could never have them again.

I think the defining moment was when both girls broke my heart. When everything else crumbled around you, you reach out for the last thing that could help you be strong again. You reach out for that last outcropping of strength and stability, praying…begging that it does not give way.

You stake that prayer with all your heart and soul that for once, just this once, that that prayer be answered. And you are willing to forsake every dream you have for that one prayer to be granted. You pray that you will hear her say those words you so long wanted to hear her say. It does not come. Those 3 precious words that most people take for granted mean everything to one that has nothing. My father had once told me that a woman was – to a man – a beacon in the night, a guide away from danger, strengthening them inside.

How right he was.

I mocked him that time, but he chuckled and said that perhaps I was right.

But, now that I know the feeling, I envy my parents. They have each other, at least. I have but the cold company of my blade and the echo of my memories.

When the pain and numbness leaves, all that is left is the regret. You ask yourself if you have tried hard enough.

If the fault was yours in some way or some mistake you made along the way that made everything as it is. You hold what is left of your ruined dreams in your hands, like hot coals giving you agony, but yet refusing to let go for fear of losing the warmth and strength it gave you.

You go over every conversation.

You go through your most precious memories, dissecting them, searching for a mistake you may have done unknowingly.

You look through your journals, recounting every moment of joy and sorrow.

Then, you taste your tears.

You ask what went wrong.

And then, when it becomes to much to bear, you simply stop caring whether the ones who love you love you any more.

And when they smile at you, pointing out every virtue that those men they love possess and that you lack, you learn that you are more fallible than most. And as you love them, all you can do is smile back – and bleed inside. You know that those men ARE better men – better than you in every way possible. Act like a child and whine about it, and lose their respect, or take it like a man and suffer in silence, give your blessings and walk on alone.

Either way, you lose.

But, you are a warrior. Sentimentalities have no place in your heart. Eventually, octracisation and loneliness forces your heart to freeze. You go into battle. You don't care about mercy. You don't care if you go home. You don't care if you walk away from that next battle at all.

You just want the pain to end.

You want the mockery to stop.

You just want to be accepted.

You just want an equal share of what everyone else takes for granted.

Where most men and women have friends and compatriots, all I will ever have is the company of my weapons. And only they and the starlit night were willing listeners, neither hateful nor prejudiced. By the Light, even the tavern whores wouldn't approach me when they glimpsed the Alterac colours. And in one engagement, some damned black wizard I took down decided to give me a new look. My once-blue eyes are now a soulless black without a trace of white. Looking at me was like looking into Hell's bottomless pit, and that did not endear me to my comrades-in-arms.

But I still fought on. I watched their backs as best as they can.

When I next took time to study myself, I was already 24 years old, a battle-scarred veteran. A greatsword rested on my shoulder, and my dark hair covered my eyes in dark bangs that gave me the look of some legendary knight.

At 28, 4 years on, Lordaeron would bear witness to the loss of both King and Crown Prince. The former fell to the treacherous blade of the latter. And the country fell apart. It just simply fell apart. I was there, throwing their undead hordes, standing shoulder to shoulder with my brethren even as the assembled armed forces of Lordaeron were overrun. Azeroth sent as many troops as it can even as it bolstered the Land Bridges in Khaz Modan.

I got a chance to prove my worth then, and in my foolishness, I never saw the perfidy my leaders would commit. And by the Light, I never saw it coming. I never did.

Do you know how many times I have been forced to fight alone?

How many times I have been blamed for my incompetence when my own leaders stabbed me in the back by not sending me the reinforcements I requested?

How many times I have seen the hateful glares of the family members whose lives I could not protect?

It just piles on.

And on.

And on.

And on.

The body count did not decrease, no matter how hard I fought or how well I led.

It does not end.

I began to fear for my life, fearing for the day that I would not be slain by the enemy, but by my own troops instead. The whispers of 'Alterac scum' and 'Alterac traitor' echo still in my ears. When Alyss and Raina finally confronted me about such rumours, I finally realised that I no longer had any place in the Alliance army. I had lost even their faith and their trust. The argument had been vicious and I found myself trying to explain the situations I found myself in.

They did not listen. They only listened to one side of the story. They had not been there. When the argument was over and done with, I was stripped of my rank and knighthood.

The goal I spent so many years fighting for taken by the two people I loved the most.

I think I cried for the first time in a long time when I turned from them and walked away. That night was the last night I would stand beneath the Light. I finally came to the terms that I was fighting for a land that did not love me and that would not accept me no matter how monumental my sacrifices were. When the camp was sleeping, I slipped past the picket lines and left. There were places I could find in the mercenary encampments – men, elves and monsters that cared not for your race or past.

But, before I could get there, someone else found me first.

Arthas – former Prince of Lordaeron. Fallen Prince. Traitor Prince. A man who was so much like me that it surprised me. He came with an offer. Join him and at least, they will have a right to hate me. Refuse, and the outcome will be no different, save that I would be nothing less than a mercenary. It was only a matter of time before some unhappy noble family decided to kill me. And even in such troubled times, they can prove to be resourceful when they wanted to even a score!

I can count plenty of many that wanted to do so – and there are more than there are appendages on my body.

I looked at the fallen prince.

I would never say it aloud, but we were more alike in spirit than we would admit. Maybe, that was why he came seeking me out. Maybe I was too weak of will to refuse, to maintain loyalty to the Holy Light. Maybe I was ambitious. Maybe I had a core of darkness in my soul that saw me fall from grace.

Whatever the reason was, I accepted Arthas's offer, and walked into the darkness. The next time Raina or Alyss saw me, I was leading an undead horde straight at their lines on the back of an armoured nightmare, my blazing blade screaming a curse on the living as my black wings spread thunderously.

I saw Raina's horrified eyes and the shock that had been on Alyss's elven features. Most of my former comrades soon realised they were facing their former comrade whom they had cast aside, into the waiting arms of evil. My blade spoke for me, my eyes a blazing hellish pit that promised retribution for every wrong done to me. I managed to capture the commander, one of the several whom I wanted to suffer. I crucified him – and proceeded to turn the cross upside down, amidst the bodies of hundreds of other soldiers crucified likewise. For what was Justice save making your enemy understand the consequence of his or her actions? Whether you are of the Light or the Darkness, it matters not.

The sight had made me scream in triumph.

Glorious…

And the Lich King had been pleased.

"You're still here, it seems," spoke a soft, velvety voice to my right. I turned to see a bat-winged shape step out into the soft moonlight. She had the same shade of skin as the night-elves, and was clad as one of their Moon Priestesses. She was armed and mounted in the same fashion, knowing it would stir my blood.

I smiled, allowing my wings to retract into my body, "Malia."

The succubus smiled, "I was wondering where you were when you left my side. So you were here. Thinking about old dreams, Death Knight?"

I did not answer. My blazing runeblade rests across my lap, providing illumination on this same cold, winter night when I made my choice and joined the Scourge. Unlike my brother and sister Death Knights, I alone am not bound to the Lich King. Something in my soul, he claims, prevents him. But he knows I will remain loyal. I don't have anywhere else to go back to.

Not back to the Alliance.

Not home to Alterac.

There is nowhere left for me to return to.

When I think about it, death can be a blessing at times.

She dismounts the Frost Cat, and stands at my side, gazing at the Alliance camp I had taken to watching.

"I suppose it is ironic, in a sense," Malia whispered softly, "that it was they who drove you into the Scourge's waiting arms. While most heroes were venerated for their loyalty and courage, you seem to be one of the few to be punished for it."

"Like Lord Arthas."

"No. The reasons for Arthas's fall from grace are not yours."

"But the end is the same, is it not? We can never turn back."

Malia did not answer for several minutes, and her face was pensive and thoughtful, "We had best leave before the Alliance patrols or their allies find us. Your name – like your former Prince – is nothing but a curse on their lips."

"True," I reply and stood up, brushing the snow from my thick cloak, "But there is something I have to do first before we go."

I gave a soft whistle, and my nightmare trotted over from the shadows of the forest. I rubbed my armoured hand through its ghostly, flaming mane before pulling three objects from my saddle. One was an old and tempered, but well-maintained, greatsword. Upon its steely length that caught the moonlight were inscribed oaths of purity and strength that had been badly defaced and scratched, a testament to the hardship it had seen. Like its wielder, the blade was badly chipped and worn, but unbroken.

I chuckle. My pride had followed me into exile, at least.

Another was an old leather-bound book emblazoned with a cross. I had not opened that book for a long, long time ever since I joined the Scourge. In my hands, it felt cold and alien, and I felt the wrath of the Light Above for my sins.

The third was a vial of oil and a mithril chain holding a rune-encrusted ring. I studied the second object for a long, long time, watching the warm silver of it gleam beneath starlight. I crafted this, one of three, long ago, when I had been younger and idealistic. Its twin sisters I had given to Alyss and Raina. When I believed that I could find a good end to my life if I tried hard enough, and persevered through all hardships.

I smiled bitterly.

My fault.

I just didn't try hard enough, did I?

It was pointless pushing blame to anyone, and blaming oneself for a decision one has made with both eyes open.

I hang the chain around the greatsword before plunging it deep into the stone I had been sitting on, my enhanced strength allowing me to split the rock to embed the blade a full foot into it. I doused the entire blade with the vial of oil.

Goodbye, Raina.

Farewell, Alyss.

I wish I had been a better man. By doing this, I crush any hope that we could return to that sunlit past we shared.

Because I know you deserve better.

I smashed my runeblade upon the stone, causing sparks to erupt and the oil to ignite. Malia watched on silently, but her eyes watched for any sign of the Alliance patrols. No doubt, the Alliance camp guards would have caught sight of this and would be sending a patrol to investigate. I threw the Holy Book into the flames before mounting my nightmare.

"Let's go. I've done all that I came to do."

I'll see you all again under those blessed, wintry skies again…if I ever have that chance come by me again. But, I know that beneath this cold, dark skies...dawn will never, ever shine upon us ever again.


End file.
